Predestination
by Varancolia
Summary: Andrew suffers while a sinister character rejoices in the distance.
1. Chapter 1

Andrew Detmer stopped his pedaling and enjoyed the panoramic view of Laurelhust, whose luxurious classic-style homes glowed in the late afternoon sun. Despite having been raised in Seattle, whenever he passed through Laurelhust he felt out of place, as if every blade of the peaceful and green splendor of that neighborhood declared its animosity towards him. Of course, it was still a sensation like any other. He could binge at Jak's Grill or have a pizza at the Varlamos with the money he had now.

Andrew didn't have a particularly bright memory, but he knew Seattle as the palm of his hand and that had helped him in his first week as a home delivery man. For now, his boss was satisfied and no client had asked for the claim sheet. He knew, however, that his current circumstances were more important than his own worth as a worker; otherwise, he would not have signed the contract with such ease and would not have received copious tips from clients who felt sorry for his loss.

It was winter and Andrew enjoyed the cool breeze as he hadn't enjoyed anything in a while. His legs, tired of pedaling for hours, thanked the brief stop and resumed the march with renewed energies. He felt stronger.

After ten minutes the asphalt became irregular and the great variety of flora gave way to two rows of hedges located on both sides of the street. He was in the suburban neighborhood where he had grown up. Among all the low houses of unified design, Andrew's was one of the easiest to identify due to the neglected state of the garden, full of weeds and dead bushes due to lack of irrigation.

After ten minutes the asphalt became irregular and the great variety of flora gave way to two rows of hedges located on both sides of the street. He was in the suburban neighborhood where he had grown up. Among all the low houses of unified design, Andrew's was one of the easiest to identify due to the neglected state of the garden, full of weeds and dead bushes due to lack of irrigation.

He inserted the keys into the lock and opened the door (just a little to avoid unwanted glances from neighbors, as his father demanded). His cat Moxie received him rubbing against his legs. Andrew crouched down to stroke the cat between his brown ears and sharpened his ear. He heard nothing but a few canned laughs coming from the dining room, which was bathed in the grim light of the TV screen.

He was about to go straight up to his room when Moxie came across, demanding attention with a pitiful meow. He went back to the kitchen. As he supposed, his father had forgotten to change the food in the bowl. Andrew snorted.

He opened a drawer. Among other things, there were two cans of chicken with vegetables. There was also a half-empty beer can behind the bag of feed for sterilized cats. He took it, and after checking that it was cold, he left it immediately. It was better not to move it from the site.

He opened a can and poured the sticky contents into the bowl. Moxie began to eat gladly.

On the way to his room he found a second can of beer on a step. Andrew stuck to the side of the wall as if it were an explosive mine and continued the ascent to his room. Once inside he locked the door.

Andrew's room was the smallest in the house. On the walls, of a faded blue that was once cyan, hung a poster of a steampunk city and another of an abstract painting with acrylics of which he was particularly satisfied, although he ignored the meaning he wanted to give when he painted it. The jarring note in the typically teenage mess that reigned in the room was the bed, which was made. Lately he tried to do certain things in honor of his mother.

He opened a can and poured the sticky contents into the bowl. Moxie began to eat gladly.

On the way to his room he found a second can of beer on a step. Andrew stuck to the side of the wall as if it were an explosive mine and continued the ascent to his room. Once inside

Andrew's room was the smallest in the house. On the walls, of a faded blue that was once cyan, hung a poster of a steampunk city and another of an abstract painting with acrylics of which he was particularly satisfied, although he ignored the meaning he wanted to give when he painted it. The jarring note in the typically teenage mess that reigned in the room was the bed, which was made. Lately he tried to do certain things in honor of his mother.

She would also have wanted Andrew to go out more and coincidentally that day there was a party at Monica's house. It also happened that the hostess herself had invited him. Not that he had never been to a party like Foster and Hayes, but in the few he had attended, the entrance had been free. No one had bothered to invite him so far.

He took out the bundle of bills from the purse and counted the hundred and fifty dollars for the third time on the day. It was said that the first step to maturity was to enjoy the money earned by the work well done, and although Andrew tended to turn a deaf ear to any life advice, the truth is that he was delighting more than expected with the smooth touch of the banknotes

He was definitely going to that damn party. It was better to spend Saturday nights talking to real people instead of shooting artificial intelligences in the darkness of their room, right?

He rolled up the bills and thought about the place where he could hide them. Searching in a desk drawer he found the old Batman case he used in elementary school. He emptied the colored waxes inside, whose smell reminded him of his childhood. It was a daily scene of inadvertent happiness, in which his mother helped him choose school supplies. Remembering those golden days was as painful as looking directly at the sun.

The memories did not go further, because at that moment Andrew straightened to perceive a familiar sound. It was a cadenious noise that immediately associated with the slow displacement of leaden steps crawling on the plywood floor.

The crank slid, but the door did not yield.

"Andrew, open to me," a throaty voice commanded.

Andrew fell silent.

"I know you're there," his father bellowed. "I can hear you breathing like a fucking pig."

"You're drunk."

"What the fuck are you saying?"

It was not an insult, it only made his condition evident. For Andrew's father, however, that someone evidenced his reality was more offensive than the worst insult.

"Don't you dare talk like that to your father!" he shouted as he slammed into the door.

Taking advantage of the noise, Andrew returned the case to the desk drawer. Then he stood up and waited, his fists clenched. In his mind he set a limit of ten pushes: if he did exceed it, the door would fall apart.

His father stopped at the eighth push. Then he heard him ruminate a last insult and walked away. Andrew dropped into bed and was immediately overcome by the fatigue accumulated by work and tension. The dream beat him.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up in the darkness noticing a tightness in his chest. Luckily it was not the insidious presence that beset him in every sleep paralysis, but Moxie confusing him with his basket. He reached for the cell phone and looked at the time. The party had only just begun.

His father's snoring echoed throughout the house, encouraging him in his decision to leave.

He took out the first thing he saw in the closet: a pair of shabby jeans and a Gengar shirt, only to end up returning the latter to his coat rack. He replaced it with a gray polo shirt and then took the clothes to the bathroom, where he cleaned and dressed without delay.

After fifteen minutes he was already chaining the bike at Capitol Hill. The place where the party was held was a huge colonial-style house. If the building itself intimidated enough to rethink the turn, what was inside was enough to convince him to leave as soon as possible. The party accommodated several dozen students from different schools, all dressed in formalwear. Apparently, in the event published on Facebook it was specified that everyone went well dressed. He cursed himself for not having bothered to read it.

Several pairs of eyes fixed on Andrew and he heard his name mentioned above the music. He had a firm opinion about the crowds: they were preferable to small groups as they made it easier to go unnoticed, but under certain circumstances, when he was momentarily dispossessed of his natural talent to merge with the environment, Andrew ran the risk of losing control. Like his father when he got drunk, at that time it was difficult to distinguish the features and singularity of others. It was like being trapped in an evil shoal that blinded and suffocated him.

For that reason, it was hard for him to identify Steve Montgomery when he stood in front of him. Andrew had always liked him. He had a special expertise to break the ice and a contagious charisma that made him feel comfortable, although he used to invade his physical space more than desired. The quarterback of the school's football team and current candidate for the presidency of the student body was the living example that fame did not necessarily spoil everyone. Suddenly they talked like close friends; Well, it was a one-sided conversation, because Andrew was mostly listening, but it was nice to know that he recognized him among the endless group that formed his circle of acquaintances.

They talked about their common experiences. The birthdays in which Mrs. Montgomery organized Yinkanas, the marathons of Disney and horror films, and the eldest daughter of the Montgomery, Amanda. Andrew showed great interest towards her to Steve's surprise. She was only five years older than them but she was believed to be an adult with the right and duty to make fun of her brother's and friends' children's games. Like almost everyone, Andrew had been scolded by her, but he never took it badly. She wasn't like Jimmy Waterstone, who laughed at his second-hand clothes and books. There was something consciously self-parodic in her way of arguing that had made him smile like a fool on more than one occasion.

"She's finishing college and is likely to do internships at Bothell High."

"Here? Cool"

Pillow Wars. Payment channels. Buttered sandwiches to the edges. Even then, at the dawn of his childhood, he had understood that Steve's house was a world that did not belong to him.

One of the members of the school rugby team took the quarterback by the sword and dragged it playfully. Steve apologized with a smile. Laughing, the two beefy athletes moved away from Andrew. The swell of students, who had retreated during their conversation with Steve, returned and raged with the rubbing of sweaty bodies and the stench of alcoholic breaths. Maybe he was still in time to retrace his steps without screwing up. He had decided: he would look for Monica to thank her and leave.

Suddenly the aforementioned made her way through the crowd to greet him. She was wearing a miss tape and a cotton candy-shaped wig. She dazzled him with a smile of perfect teeth and put a plastic cup the size of a pot in his hands. Andrew tried to tell her that he was grateful, but that he was abstemious. Monica raised her voice a lot to make herself heard above Lady Gaga's song that was playing to the delight of a group of homosexuals who chanted her on the dance floor.

"I'm glad you came! Are you having fun?"

That question was followed by an awkward interrogation on the subject par excellence, which he faced with all the strength he could muster. While talking, the girl put her hand to her chest with affectation. Andrew tried to change the subject, but Monica turned the conversation over and over to the same subject while repeating all the common places that used to be told to someone dealing with the loss. She was very drunk. But Andrew sensed that she was a good person. Alcohol only floated her affective side, just as it also exposed the monster that was his father.

He wanted to leave. His energy reserves were low, but he didn't find a way to cut it.

Without being fully aware, Andrew also started drinking. At first it was a mere practicality, to avoid splashing the ground in the presence of Monica. Then he sipped a little when he heard that nothing lasts forever, and a little more when Monica assured him that time heals any wounds. A big sip every time she talked about love that never leaves us. And so on until the glass had emptied without realizing it.

The crowd was transforming before their unfocused sight; the chaotic shoal turned into a harmless mass, and Andrew moved between them without fear of colliding, like a fish in synchronized and polarized swimming that takes advantage of favorable currents. Then he realized that Monica was driving him to her room, and of the obvious intentions of something like that. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and confessed something he considered of mutual interest:

"I´m a virgin"

Monica turned and ruffled Andrew´s hair like he was an anxious puppy.

"I don´t know why. You are very cute"

"I'm just really picky"

Monica must have found her chastity worthy of pity, because her eyes dampened and she took him to his room as if he were leading a confused patient to his hospital room. Andrew's stomach stirred disturbingly and he regretted not eating anything. Usually, the boys of his condition experienced nerves as well as expectation, but in his case it was simply a bundle of nerves.

"Be calm," Monica said, sitting Andrew delicately on her bed. "You won´t have to do anything."

The manicured hands of the young woman touched the upper part of his thighs in anticipation of what would happen. Refusing would have been a humiliation for her. And being Monica a charming and sexy girl, it was convenient that his own humiliation be subject to the wishes of her hostess. He pursed his lips and closed his eyes, trusting that nature would end up working its miracle. The mistake was to assume that a freak like him was governed by the same desires as others. Thus, the humiliation he eventually experienced far exceeded any other he considered when the gastric juices in his stomach went to Monica's hair.

"I'm sorry," he said in a higher octave.

Monica pulled away just as Andrew vomited for the second time, staining the plush carpet. Tears sprouted from the effort and were diluted in the pool of vomit, which was joined by a few more tears of frustration and disgust caused by his own body, fundamentally failed.

Looking away from the floor, he discovered that he was alone in the room, but not for long; downstairs, in the dining room, an ominous silence had spread.

He used the tactic that he was often forced to do when he felt cornered: jump out the window. The height was larger than that of his room, but the grass was also considerably softer and cushioned his fall. Moving in the the shadows, he was finally able to reach the bicycle, unleash it and pedal back home.


End file.
